


All or Nothing

by afterearth



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Banter, Crime in space, Din is a canonical disaster with his finances, Din is awkward unless it's about a job, F/M, Fugitive Reader, Grogu is in his terrible twos, Growth, Miscommunication, Omission of truth, On the Run, Organized Crime, Reader is internally screaming this whole journey, References to previous drug and alcohol abuse, References to previous toxic relationships, Slow Burn, capable Reader, culture clash, relationship building, relationship first sex later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterearth/pseuds/afterearth
Summary: You fucked up. Hard. You’d had the perfect plan - you had it all under control; the players, the entrance, the distraction, the getaway... Well. You thought you had it all planned out. Now? Now you’re just a fugitive on the run. No money, no friends, no way out. You need to disappear. Then, opportunity comes knocking.“Are you the one looking for room and board?” the Mandalorian asks.You release the breath you've been holding. “Sure am,” you say brightly. A green little being coos at you from a floating pod behind the Mandalorian. “Did you bring your baby into a bar?”The Mandalorian looks behind him, looks back at you. “That’s why I’m hiring help.”
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda & Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	All or Nothing

_"Truth is...the game was rigged from the start.” - Benny, Fallout: New Vegas_

  
  


The Quarren bartender who you’d become exceptionally well acquainted with over your week-long stay is staring at you pointedly. “Hey,” he grumbles, mouth parts writhing in what could be annoyance, hunger, or excitement. 

From the narrowed set of his eyes, your guess is that it’s annoyance. 

“Bass,” you say, friendly-like, “my favorite Quarren in the galaxy, the best bartender I’ve ever known, have I ever told you how enchanting you are tonight? The lighting in here really does you no justice -”

“You said two days. It’s been eight,” he cuts you off, rag slapping the countertop of the greasy bar. 

You sit on a stool and lay your forearms on the counter. Your elbow digs into something sticky. You calculate - “You don’t still count the first night do you? I barely stumbled in -”

“Eight. From the night of. You said two days. Two days and you’d have credits to pay me back for the food and room.” He leans closer, tentacles squirming. 

“Well - wait now, a nook in the bar isn’t a room, there's not even a blanket. And the food is just rehydrated lichen bread - not, of course, that I’m ungrateful, I very much am -”

A thick digit taps the counter. “I want my payment, meat.” 

You smile, spread your fingers. “If I had any, I assure you I would have paid you, but unfortunately work is hard to come by…” 

“Work the salt mine.” 

Uh. No. That’s a death wish. Burrowers and chompers galore, to say nothing of heat stroke and mining raids conducted nearly weekly by pirates. It's veritable garden of horrors out there. “Bass. I’ll get you your money. Just give it time; I always pay my debts.” 

“There’s work in the back room. It’ll get you a real bed. Good food. Warmer there than out here.” His tentacles writhe, reaching out a little. Excitement. 

You lean away microscopically. “I’m not up for that kind of work. I assure you, you will have your _credits_ ,” you emphasize. 

Bass taps again. The tentacles droop. “Sweep and mop, clean the counter then, meat.” He waves you off. He’s still confident you won’t have much choice soon. And he has you pegged right that you would never work the mine.

He leaves you to tend to a Rodian you’ve seen the entire time you’ve been here, the one who makes you a little nervous. He’s a little skittish, quick to go to his holster as if he needs to keep checking his weapon is there. You still wonder who he's running from.

The bar is empty, save for you, Bass, the Rodian, and a gigantic Devaronian on his twelfth beer. 

You close your eyes and try to ignore the teasing voice in your head reminding you that this is your life now. No more glitz and glamor, no more sweet payouts, no more expensive wining and dining for business deals, or dancing in clothes that now make you cringe at the amount of money you shelled out. No more fast speeders. No more late night shows to races, performances. You'd had a golden egg. But you'd wanted the platter. And now you live in a cramped nook in a filthy bar on an arid planet full of things that want to eat you alive.

You are reliant on the Quarren bartender of a hole in the wall bar to keep throwing scraps you can eat. He told you in the beginning he’d offer you more if you offered some skin - but you aren’t quite there yet. Yet. 

All because you made one stupid, little mistake. Because you were naïve. 

You miss pillows. Bedsheets. Actual meals. 

You don’t want to spread them for that squid-head just for a bowl of soup though. But if you can’t find some work that won’t kill you, you might just have to. 

What goes up must come down. Isn’t that the saying? You never thought it would apply to you. 

The bar’s door slides open slowly, squeaking the whole while. This place is a regular palace. 

Heavy footfalls make you listen carefully, but you try not to tense, try not to look immediately. The Rodian stands up in a rush, hand at his hip. You curl into the bar, preparing to throw yourself over the counter. 

“I was told someone was looking for work,” a modulated voice rasps. 

The Rodian squawks, “Who sent you, who have you come for?” 

Silence falls briefly. “I’m looking for someone who advertised at the docks for work. Jack of all trades.” 

You perk up a little. You spin slowly, still ready to leap out of danger. 

A Mandalorian stands before you, beskar armor gleaming even in the dirty low light of the bar. And all at once your hopefulness dies. Mandalorian. Oh _no_ . You don’t think Rinnrivin would hire out their mercs, but you have pissed them off beyond belief so they might feel the need to cough up some creds for an out-of-house employee to track your hide down and bring you back _alive_. 

You shift, preparing to slip over the bar’s edge to the safety behind the spotchka, but the warrior notices you and it’s too late. 

“Are you the one looking for room and board?” the Mandalorian asks. "I travel often and need someone on the ship with me."

You release the breath you’ve been holding. It’s a little shaky. “Sure am,” you say brightly. “Jack of all trades.” Time to sell yourself. Maybe he's not here for a bounty. Run with it like there's nothing wrong. Don't let the loth-wolf smell distress. You run through the spiel for your resume. “I can speak seven languages, handle and manage finances, including stock and trade - formerly Imperial and New Republic alike -” 

“What about kids?” he interrupts. 

Why is everyone interrupting you today? But also - _what_? 

“Uh. I’m sorry - what?” Your brain stutters a little. 

“Kids. Do you know anything about childcare?” the Mandalorian repeats patiently. 

You stare. Your hand-written ad in Aurebesh had included your experiences in personal assistance - communication, bargaining, organization, finances, and even included what you’d picked up about basic electronic and weapons’ maintenance. Nowhere in there had you said anything about being an au pair. 

You notice the pod floating behind the Mandalorian when you cast your eyes around briefly to dig out an answer for him. 

A tiny hand rises from cloth in the pod and out peeks a little scrunched face with great, floppy ears. A green little being coos at you from the pod. 

Your silver tongue fails you. “Did you bring your baby into a bar?” Especially this bar. It's a cesspit. 

The Mandalorian looks behind him, looks back at you. “That’s why I’m hiring help.” 

You stare at the baby. It’s _cute_. You have watched kids in your time, usually Leena’s, but they’d been a little older. But you aren’t an au pair, and also why does a Mandalorian have a baby? Is that his baby? No...he’s got five fingers, looks humanoid - but also what species is that baby? Why is the baby in the bar?

_What_? 

Bass is coming around. “She’s looking for credits. Not room and board,” he declares. He puts a territorial hand near you. 

You shudder inwardly and stand, ignoring him entirely. “Yes. Credits, room and board. I will admit that I need a slight advance on my pay. The bartender has been very kind to let me stay while I couldn’t find better accommodations.” _Stay away, squid-head._

The Mandalorian stares. “How much.” 

“Sixty-five credits for the kind sir behind me, and another thirty so I can purchase supplies.” 

“Supplies?” 

“I don’t have anything on me,” you spread your arms a little, smile. “Another set of clothes, new shoes, some toiletries. That’s all. I won’t run. You can follow me, track me, come with me. I won’t object.” 

“You’ll need more than thirty credits.” 

You almost salivate at what an easy target he might be, but he's terrifying and it's imperative that you make an excellent impression on him. You need off this rock. You need to keep moving. 

“I won’t. Trust me.” 

He pauses, then turns to the Quarren. He puts down eighty in Calamari flan. “Does that cover it?” 

Bass meets your eyes, narrowed, denied, _pissed_. 

You wink. "I told you I pay my debts. And it's in flan," you say, as though you're ignorant of the fact that the Mandalorian is paying Bass with flan - a Quarren supremacist who still espouses hate about the Mon Calamari. It feels like the best possible goodbye that could be given to him. 

Bass says nothing, just swipes the flan into his apron. “Out.” 

The Mandalorian turns to you and you lead the way out to the market stalls that line the sandy, gritty roads. 

You keep your word. You really do only need thirty credits. 

Your dress can have a break now, so can your heels and your feet. 

Your haul is decent, if you say so yourself. Basic black trousers, two pairs, basic tunics, two pairs, a pair of boots, a scarf, hygienic products. You feel like a new woman. You haggled everything, and won. You’re wearing new, sort of boring, clothes. But they're new. 

The Mandalorian waits while you dress. “Let’s get to the ship.” 

You grin, hands on your hips. “Let’s. After you.” You rock on your heels. This is a good day. 

  
  
.

His ship is an antique piece of crap. It looks like it’s held together with gumpaste and hope. You might die. 

The baby - who is still nameless, maybe it’s a Mandalorian thing, you don’t know; the Mandalorians you'd met didn’t talk about their cultural habits or families, they were usually just dumping bodies in your boss’s office - gurgles and waves a little three-fingered hand at you. Numbly, you let him hold a finger. 

The ramp creaks as it lowers. It gets stuck at one point, and then just drops heavily. 

The Mandalorian looks at you. “I’m going to get that fixed.” 

Your smile is natural looking, but it feels like you just scribbled it on. “She’s a classic. Razor Crest, right?” 

The Mandalorian stares at you - you think - for a long moment, before he boards. The pod follows. You glance behind you at the port, dusty and dirty and nasty and you bemoan how far you’ve fallen. 

You ascend the ship, jolting when the ramp lifts slowly and suddenly slams shut behind you.

You survey your new habitat for the foreseeable future, until you've found better work elsewhere or your services are terminated. The evacuation closet is tiny. You have no idea how you’ll fit in comfortably, much less how the Mandalorian does. It has a pullout shower closet - sonic you’d wager. Maybe water. Gods you'd kill for a water shower.

Your old residence had once had a bathtub. You’d once been able to afford hot water. A wardrobe. You’d once had a morning and night routine for your face - body lotion, hair masks and treatments. Gods, once you’d had _money_. You hadn’t been the richest around, certainly, but you’d once been well off enough to not worry where your next meal might be. You’d once been able to afford your own luxuries. 

Now you’re on the first rung of a long ladder, looking up at the golden light above all over again. You are reliving your younger years all over again; just an unpolished kid hustling in the streets. 

Working from the bottom up feels so much like flailing in quicksand. 


End file.
